


The Adventure of the Monster

by annamatopia



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Case Fic, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Detective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Gen, Monster of the Week, Murder Mystery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:07:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24129433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annamatopia/pseuds/annamatopia
Summary: As a fine, upstanding visitor to Novigrad, Geralt has been semi-frequently called upon to investigate various monster contracts by the higher-ups in the city. Two other fine, upstanding citizens of Novigrad are also frequently called on to investigate miscellaneous crime. Someone thought it would be a good idea to hire them both.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> This is based mostly in Witcher 3: The Wild Hunt, and takes place after the "Carnal Sins" quest; spoilers for that and all preceding connected quests. References to the show included, but this is not based on the show.
> 
> You may imagine Holmes and Watson however you wish, but I've written them and imagined them as the RDJ movie versions--I've always seen Watson as younger than other depictions show him, so I definitely prefer Jude Law's interpretation.
> 
> No one told me I couldn't write this crossover, and no one stopped me, so I did. Enjoy.

“You will stay, won’t you Geralt? At least until the Chameleon is on her feet!” said Dandelion, with more enthusiasm than Geralt thought strictly necessary.

“Hmm,” he said, looking around at the garish decor.

Dandelion looked to be mere moments from laying himself prostrate on the floor to beg. “ _Please,_ Geralt, I will set you up in the upstairs room, as my gratitude for helping with Priscilla and the rest, free of charge. Meals included, of course,” he added hastily.

“Don’t suppose this has anything to do with all the trouble about Menge and the temple guard,” Geralt said dryly.

Dandelion avoided his gaze in a way that clearly meant he had thought of that exact thing. Geralt sighed; he couldn’t exactly blame Dandelion. He’d had a hell of a time locked up, and even though Menge was dead, there was always the possibility of being picked back up again by the temple guard. The whole fucking mess gave Geralt the worst kind of headache. “Fine,” he said, dragging it out a bit, “I’ll stay. But not for too long.”

Dandelion was over the moon, and in fairly short order he had commandeered the top floor of his establishment to turn the very best room into Geralt’s. It took so little time, in fact, that Geralt suspected half of it had been done already, like Dandelion knew he would stay. Bastard.

Unfortunately, this meant that Geralt had to _stay_. Roach went into a cozy stall in the stables, pampered with fresh oats and hay, while he withered away indoors. It took him only two days to sharpen his swords, clean his armor, replenish his stock of potions, and sell everything he couldn’t use at the nearest apothecary—and after that, Zoltan took one look at him and sent him out-of-doors.

“I can watch Dandelion for now, ye needn’t worry about him,” Zoltan told him. “Go and burn off some of that energy of yours, lad. We can’t have ye moping around the place and scarin’ off all the patrons.”

Geralt, being in possession of some old-fashioned common sense, admitted in the privacy of his own head that brooding in the corner did no one any good, and in fact probably made quite a few people nervous. He didn’t want the Chameleon to fail, so he slunk out into the streets to do his brooding outside instead. From there, things only went downhill: Zoltan shoved him out the door after breakfast every damn day, approved by Dandelion. Geralt was starting to suspect a plot to distract him from… well, everything.

He therefore spent a great deal of his newfound free time loitering around the notice boards in Novigrad waiting for a contract to be posted. Nothing came up—it was like watching paint dry. It hadn’t been a week and a half before he decided that, if given the opportunity, he’d take one single drowner half a day’s ride away in the countryside for the most mediocre purse of coin just to get out of the city for awhile. Something—anything—to keep his mind and body occupied. He hadn’t been this bored since… ever, if he were to be honest. He felt quite useless.

“Look at the lad,” Zoltan said later in hushed tones that he probably thought Geralt couldn’t hear from across the noisy room. “He’s wastin’ away, ye can’t let him go on like this.”

“Zoltan, I swear to you, I am not keeping him here by force,” Dandelion whispered back. “It’s just so nerve-wracking, seeing the temple guards whenever I look outside… sometimes I think I even recognize some of them…”

Zoltan heaved a great sigh. “Ye can’t keep him here forever.”

“I know… just for awhile longer.” Dandelion rubbed at his face in a way that made Geralt suspect he hadn’t been sleeping well. Dark circles around his eyes, and a fatigued sloop to his shoulders, which Geralt felt guilty for not noticing before. “I feel better just knowing he’s nearby, in case something happens. I couldn’t bear it if Priscilla were hurt again, you know.”

“He needs somethin’ to do, is what,” Zoltan said; he took on a faraway gaze for a moment. “Ye know, I might have just the thing. A friend of a friend told me…”

And that was how Geralt found himself shoved unceremoniously out the door with directions to the scene of the crime and visions of coin dancing in his head. “He said he’d pay generously, don’t ye worry,” was all Zoltan told him. Despite the complete lack of any information, Geralt found himself looking forward to the hunt. It would, at least, give him something to do, maybe occupy up a day or two. Get him enough coin to look into picking up some new saddlebags for Roach.

He ended up down a few blocks from the docks in front of an unassuming house squashed between a merchant and another private dwelling. He might have passed by it entirely if it hadn’t been for the crowd gathered in front, each of them trying to look in through the open front door. As he watched, a city guard stepped out and ushered the nosiest away, much to their disappointment. This left a single woman on the verge of sobbing standing on the doorstep. Geralt figured she must be the widow of the man who had died.

He surreptitiously made his way over and stood awkwardly for a moment before she and the guard noticed him.

“Family only,” the guard told him.

“Here about the contract,” Geralt said.

The woman’s eyes widened. “But we’ve just today had our dear Adren wrenched from us, no one’s had the time…”

He cut her off before she could ramble on too long. “News travels fast,” he said curtly. “Do you need my help or not?”

She faltered for a moment, then nodded and curled in on herself. “I didn’t hear nothing this morning… just came downstairs, and there he was, dead…” She sniffed. 

“You didn’t hear anything at all?” Geralt pressed. “Do you know when he died? When did you last see him?”

“Just last night, before bed… he was my one and only love, and I don’t have no one else… I’m all alone…” She started sobbing, and Geralt was left with the fact that this answered exactly none of his questions, and no further lines of questioning brought to light anything else useful.

“’Tis horrible, master witcher,” the guard not unkindly said after the unfruitful interrogation. “It looks to be a nasty death. You had best ready yourself.”

Witchers were made of sterner stuff than humans; Geralt found it quite hard to believe that anything he saw inside might shock him, but he had the good sense not to say so.

The woman swallowed, wringing her hands, then tentatively ventured, “I know your kind only works for pay… but we have so little, I don’t know…”

It was a testimony to Geralt’s state of boredom that he immediately waved her worries away. “Whatever you can put together will be fine. Work needs to be done anyway.” Besides, Zoltan had promised his friend would pay up.

He turned before she could blubber her thanks all over him and slipped into the house as the guard pointed the way up to the second floor. The open area in the first floor seemed to be mostly in order; opening up his senses revealed nothing out of the ordinary, just odds and ends here and there that were likely a product of every day living. His nose, though, led him straight to the staircase.

He stopped just two steps up and sniffed; blood, traces of vomit, perfume, an herbal concoction he would need to further investiage. Then voices reached his ears—pitched low and murmuring.

“—time of death, would you say?”

“Perhaps ten hours ago, by my observations. Holmes—don’t touch that!” The sound of a light slap and a rustle. “Need I remind you of the likely caustic properties of this solution? The man's skin nearly burned straight off him, and you cannot afford to lose your hand!”

“Poisoned, Watson,” the other said. He sounded rather thrilled.

The second voice came more level-headed and dry. “I suppose you’ll want to take samples back to the lab.”

“Seeing as I am still banned from the morgue, that will have to do,” the first one said rather petulantly.

“One of these days, the witch hunters will end up in our house, and I will have no explanation whatsoever for the shit you keep around."

Intrigued, Geralt ascended several more steps to poke his head up over the landing just enough to see. Two figures were hunched over a body on the floor. One lithe, his body contorted in a most uncomfortable manner to peer closely at the body; the other bent carefully, obviously shorter, one knee on the floor and the other raised as if it pained him. He watched as the taller one stood and cleared his throat, then looked directly at him on the stairs.

Well, Geralt thought, no sense in subterfuge anymore. He climbed up the rest of the way and leaned up against the wall, arms crossed over his chest.

“Watson!” the man said, his eyes lighting up. “I believe we may soon have a break in our case after all!”

The other man pushed himself to his feet, and there—a grimace as he straightened his knee, Geralt _knew_ something was up. He brushed his hands off and stepped away from the body. “The guard said no one was to disturb us,” he said somewhat suspiciously.

Geralt shrugged. “Let me in just fine.”

“We have only just arrived ourselves, I assume you are here to have a look—”

The shorter man jabbed an elbow into his ribs and hissed, “Where the hell are your manners?”

His companion clasped his hands together, making no effort whatsoever to contain his glee. “Ah! A witcher—master witcher—it is indeed a pleasure to meet you—"

Having been friends with people who took a long time to get to the point, Geralt had mastered the art of staring until the point was made. It had proved effective in the past at exhausting Dandelion’s many rambling thoughts on a topic.

The man deflated somewhat and looked disappointed that Geralt did not share his euphoria. The shorter man sighed deeply. “Please forgive my colleague,” he said; he extended a hand in a sweeping gesture towards his companion. “I am John Watson, and this is Sherlock Holmes.” There was a long pause, in which Geralt assumed he was to introduce himself.

“Wait,” Watson said abruptly, seeming to notice the swords on his back for the first time. Understanding lit on his face, and he blurted, “Geralt of Rivia!”

Both Holmes and Geralt turned identical looks of bewilderment on Watson, who scowled at Holmes. “Holmes!” said Watson, in tones of incredulity, “do you mean to say you have no idea who this is?”

Geralt felt terribly exposed and resisted the urge to leave immediately.

Holmes was staring at Watson. “A witcher, obviously. We have already—”

“Have you not heard the song? _When the White Wolf_ —”

“Fuck,” Geralt muttered. That damn song had been in circulation for over twenty years, and it still haunted him at the most inconvenient times.

Now Holmes shrank back, barely perceptible, and cleared his throat. “As you well know, my foray into the more popular cultural phenomena has been relaxed of late—”

“Nonexistent, more like. The song is twenty years old!”

“—and I can hardly be blamed for my lack of knowledge in an area which rarely comes into play,” Holmes continued blithefuly, speaking right over Watson. This seemed to Geralt to be a familiar argument between the two.

“That’s me,” Geralt said, resigned. “Geralt of Rivia, witcher.” Desperate to change the subject, he nodded to the abandoned body on the floor. “Here to take a look around, as a favor to a friend.”

Watson took a reluctant step back to allow Geralt better access. “My apologies. If I may inquire into your expertise…”

“Watson, don’t be ridiculous.” Holmes said; his eyes were sparkling with unadultered delight. “I did say this would be a break in our case, did I not? There is something about this one in particular that piqued the interest of someone close to our witcher—”

Geralt valiantly resisted the urge to say _not your witcher_.

“—and therefore, whatever they noticed may provide valuable insight into the killer.”

Holmes and Watson then began bickering, and Geralt let their voices wash over him as he zoned out everything but the important details. Blood, perfume, vomit, poison. A chair had been overturned close to the body overtop scuff marks—there had been a struggle. Victim in the chair, someone behind restraining him while another force-fed him something, Geralt figured. He smelt the tang of fresh blood on the table behind the chair where the poor man had likely bashed his head back into the killer’s face. The perfume, too, had permeated the whole room; he thought he could pick up a decent trail if he tried hard enough. “Could be looking for someone with a broken nose,” he said aloud.

Both Watson and Holmes turned to stare at him for a long moment before Holmes spoke. “How could you possibly know that?”

“Secret witcher powers,” Geralt said with the straightest face he could summon, but at Holmes’ incredulous sound, he sighed. “Smelled blood the moment I walked in, and there’s a few drops on the table.”

“Incredible,” Holmes murmured. “I have never had the opportunity to see a witcher work… I must say it is quite an honor…”

“Not to squash your party,” Geralt said, “but I gotta ask, who even are you?”

Holmes drew himself up taller and tried to peer down his nose at Geralt, without much success. “I, like you, am… shall we say, a specialist, to whom the authorities come when they have no other recourse.”

“Guess you _could_ say the same of myself,” Geralt admitted. He was a sort of specialist, wasn’t he? No one besides witchers hunted the sort of things he did, and there were so few of them left. 

Holmes started in on something else, but Geralt ignored him again in favor of crouching next to the body. There were a number of chemical burns across the lower half of the man’s face and jaw along with hints of vomit, which were mirrored on the floor next to him. The body had clearly been turned from face-down. He thought this was likely the mixture that Watson had warned Holmes not to touch; he would need to be careful. Perhaps a bit of Swallow might solve any problems that could arise.

With this in mind, he swiped a finger over just the mixture, deftly avoiding any vomit, and inhaled deeply. Strange—beggartick blossoms and hop umbels. Wolfsbane…? An interesting mix. He thought it might also have an alcohol base that had evaporated due to air exposure. This sort of concoction might cause the light burning he now felt on his skin, he decided, and to be sure he touched the tip of his tongue to his finger.

Damn. He knew this taste all too well. It resembled, near-exactly, the werewolf decoction he took on the rarest of occasions, plus and minus an ingredient or two. He wiped his finger off on the dead man’s shirt.

As Geralt felt his vision flicker and knew without a doubt his eyes were turning black, the room fell quiet. Holmes went suddenly taut, though he made a visible effort not to show it—his heartbeat gave him away, which didn’t surprise Geralt in the least. Watson remained more composed with just a catch in his breath.

“Watson was right, you shouldn’t touch that,” Geralt said to Holmes, who was frozen to the spot and watching Geralt intently.

Holmes recovered and bounded forward to snatch Geralt’s hand, turning it over and examining his finger. Amused, Geralt let him, allowing his wrist to go slack. “Incredible,” Holmes breathed out after a moment’s study. “Watson warned me it would burn… Which you had to have heard on the stairs, yes? And yet you’ve not a scratch.”

“Witchers heal faster than humans,” Geralt said mildly. “And we’re immune to most poisons.”

“If you say so,” Holmes said dubiously. He released Geralt and stepped back to examine the body again. Watson, meanwhile, was scrutinizing Geralt quite closely in a way that made him mildly uncomfortable.

Geralt cleared his throat. “Still, uh, don’t know who you both are or how you got involved in this. There something I should know about?”

Holmes, having been given something to latch onto, perked up. “Ah, yes. This is the fourth in a series of related yet unexplained murders, all poisoning. We were called after the second by the captain of the guard—” Must be Zoltan’s friend, Geralt realized—“and asked to investigate.” Holmes nodded to Geralt. “I assume you were asked the same.”

“Hmm.” Geralt shrugged and leaned back against the wall.

Holmes continued, “Already you have given us more information regarding the cause of death than many hours in my lab could possibly uncover. If you happen to know the poison used…?” He trailed off, hopeful.

“Recipe is pretty rare, but you can find them if you look hard enough.” Geralt, of course, had long ago memorized every formula he could possibly need. He could brew any witcher potion in his sleep. “Good news, though, they couldn’t possibly brew this right anyway unless they like hunting monsters. Well, for a given value of good news. Someone’s dead.”

“And what of the ingredients?” Holmes asked, pausing to peer at Geralt.

“Beggartick blossoms, hop umbel, wolfsbane, and some kind of alcohol, likely dwarven spirits.”

Watson snorted politely behind his hand. “Rare ingredients, I assume?”

Holmes began pacing the width of the room, his fingers steepled together. “We should begin by tracking sales across the city, see who’s been buying up enough of those to make this potion—"

“No use,” Geralt said; he’d already thought of the same thing and immediately dismissed it. “Anyone could walk out to a field and pick the beggartick or wolfsbane themselves, and hop umbel is common enough to buy from any herbalist.”

“Beggartick blossoms are a base for fisstech. We might need to look into the drug trade,” Holmes began, but Geralt shook his head.

“Poison’s not related at all, trust me.” He hesitated a little; they might have permission to be here, might even be trustworthy, but he didn’t want to give away witcher secrets if he didn’t have to.  
  
Watson took pity on him. “We’ll worry about that later, _Holmes_ , don’t start with me,” he said to Holmes, who was opening his mouth to protest. “We don’t need to worry about that right now. Let’s finish up with what we can here before following any other leads.”

Holmes shut his mouth and pursed his lips, then glanced to Geralt. “I assume you will follow your own leads, then?”

“Wouldn’t want to steal your thunder,” Geralt said. He gestured to the room and stepped back. He thought he had everything he needed, but it would be interesting to see what an ordinary human could pick up.

“The killer—one of them—was likely a woman,” Holmes said, “as there is still a heavy scent of perfume in the air. _Au Fil de l’Eau_ , if I am not mistaken, originating in Toussant. I am sure you smelled it the moment you entered—” Geralt inclined his head, and Holmes continued, “so I will linger no longer there. If you will notice the scrapes around the chair here, I believe there was a scuffle, likely resulting in the broken nose you have already mentioned. No ligature marks on the body, but a slight bruising on the upper arms indicates the victim was restrained by hand while force-fed the poison…” He trailed off, gazing intently at the body before concluding, “Therefore, two killers.”

Geralt raised his eyebrows. “You can tell the type of perfume and where it’s from just by the smell?” He might have enhanced senses, but he’d never be able to remember all those perfumes, just pick them out amongst the thousands of other smells across the city for tracking purposes.

“He has some… niche interests,” Watson muttered, in the sort of tone that Geralt took to mean _not niche enough in some areas_.

Another curious look to Geralt, and then Holmes turned to Watson and gestured to the body. “My dear doctor—” Oh, Geralt thought, Watson was a doctor. Interesting. “—will you once again give us your informed opinion, for those of us who were not present earlier?”

“Of course.” Watson gingerly knelt once more next to the body—favoring his left knee, Geralt noticed—and looked it over with a professional eye. “It’s like you said, Holmes, no ligatures but bruising on the upper arms. He’s been dead about ten hours, and the poor chap died swiftly. Beggartick will do that right quick.”

Holmes clasped his hands together and headed toward the stairs. “I have all I need, then, and I must talk to the wife. Perhaps she will reveal more information.”

“Doubt it,” Geralt muttered under his breath, though he was curious to see if Holmes could wring out any more information.

Holmes did not, in fact, have any luck. His interview went much the same as Geralt’s, and Geralt was beginning to wish he had just used _Axii_ to start with. He couldn’t now, not without arousing suspicion, so he kept his mouth shut and let Holmes learn the hard way.


	2. Chapter 2

They had an unfortunate run-in with the corpse collector of Novigrad on the way out the door. Eustace, being possessed by a marginal amount of common sense, made a strangled sound and plastered himself to the wall. Geralt had never seen anyone move so fast. Just to cement the point, though, he leaned in extra close with a wide, toothy grin. Since the veins around his eyes were probably still black, this seemed to drive the lesson home, and Eustace nearly collapsed in anxiety.

Geralt brushed his hands off and jogged ahead to catch up with Holmes and Watson. They both gave him a look, but neither said anything for a few minutes as he sniffed out the strongest scent of the perfume from the crime scene.

“An abominable man,” Holmes said once they were out of earshot of the man in question, “but a necessary evil, I am sure.”

“Creeps me out, and I kill monsters for a living.” Geralt suppressed a shudder, trying very hard not to remember their conversation over the victim of Priscilla’s recent would-be killer.

Beside them, Watson set out grimly and said, “I ran into men like him in the army. Cruel, troubling bastards.”

Geralt hummed his agreement and paused at a corner. He suspected he looked like a bloodhound, sniffing the air, but it couldn’t be helped, and frankly he didn’t care what other people thought of him. If he did, he wouldn’t be a witcher.

After several blocks—why the hell Novigrad had to be so big, Geralt would never know—Holmes spoke up. “Before I persue other avenues of conversation, I must ask: do you suspect the hand of a man or a monster in this mess of a business?” Holmes asked. Geralt noticed Holmes kept perfect pace with him, thought Watson lagged somewhat behind, plagued by his limp.

“Too early to tell,” he said shortly. “Had a contract recently where the whole thing reeked of humans, but it all turned out to be a higher vampire. Right under my nose,” he grumbled with a twinge of regret. He allowed, after a moment, “But given the poisoning and intact organs…”

“Likely a human,” Holmes concluded. He peered at Geralt. “You are a witcher, you hunt monsters. Why have you not left this to the proper authorities?”

“Not all monsters require silver,” Geralt said grimly. He rolled his shoulders, shifting the blades on his back, and Holmes nodded once in understanding.

They subsided into silence as Geralt tracked the perfume. The further away they got, the more the smell dissipated, but he was still able to pick it out fairly well. Unfortunate that there were no tracks on the pavement as well.

Predictably, it was Holmes who once again broke the silence—Geralt got the distinct impression that he liked to hear himself talk. “Tell me, witcher,” he said, “besides your most keen sense of smell, what else has set you apart from the ordinary human race?”

Holmes seemed to be visibly containing his excitement. Geralt had never seen anyone so eager to talk about—well, being a witcher—that he had no idea what to say. “Uh… I can see in the dark?” he tenatively offered. “Well, mostly anyway.” The scent trail had taken him left towards the red light district.

“Of course, the cat eyes.” Holmes pounced on this scrap of information like a cat on a mouse. “Is it true night vision, or just mildly improved? Can you see in complete darkness?”

“No, I have a potion for that,” Geralt said, distracted; the trail had wafted out, distorted by the variety of other perfumed scents down the street. He would need to find another trace to pick up. “Might need to see the house again, or places past victims died, look for more clues.” 

Holmes practically bounced on the balls of his feet. “A potion—well. You must still me all about it on the way, as I do believe I know where to go.”

Watson, who had been silent the whole way, abruptly spoke up. “Holmes, you must stop, you’re probably distracting him.”

“Mm.” Geralt, who was used to ignoring Dandelion seventy-five percent of the time, shrugged as he focused his vision on the street and nearby walls. He narrowed in on a smudge of blood smeared on a brick, but it turned out to not match the blood from the killer. “Not a match,” he told Holmes as the man crowded up beside him to look.

Holmes frowned and touched the splotch. “We have made so many advances in criminal forensics, to tell the blood of one man from another, or other remains… and yet you can do so with no effort whatsoever. You really are quite extraordinary.”

“You might be the only one who thinks so. Surely you’ve seen the prejudice,” Geralt said bitterly. He would never forget the hysterical mobs driving him out of towns and villages, denying him the pay he had fairly earned, shunning the protection he had given them.

“Of course,” Holmes murmured. “I must admit, I am surprised you have not been openly harassed by the witch hunters. One would think they’d have marked you for sorcery.”

Geralt tried not to think of Ciri and shrugged. “We’ve… clashed, but I’ve also helped them on occasion. They have no reason to hunt me down.” Well, unless he counted helping Triss and the other mages… and the several other times he had “clashed” with them, which had all ended in their unfortunate early demises. “Besides, I don’t—can’t—practice magic.”

Holmes eyed him intently. “Is that so?” He looked like he wanted to carry on, but Watson stopped him with a hand to the arm and murmured, “Now’s not the time, Holmes.” He ndoded to a small cluster of witch hunters around the corner, who were looking at their group with some suspicion.

“Very well,” Holmes huffed. He waved a hand down another street that Geralt thought led to the more slummy parts of Novigrad. “Shall we?”

This time, Geralt let Holmes lead the way. He still kept his senses peeled, watching and listening and smelling, but nothing familiar jumped out at him. So focused was he on the rest of the city that he didn’t realize he’d tuned out Holmes until Watson cleared his throat behind them, a clear admonition to Holmes.

“Sorry, didn’t catch that,” Geralt said, not sounding very sorry. He felt generous enough to answer a few questions.

Patiently, Holmes repeated, “Do tell me about your potions, I am quite curious.”

“Hmm.” Geralt didn’t know if he wanted to go into much detail, but—what the hell, why not. Maybe they would even understand some of it. “Don’t think I could explain everything—” He didn’t even truly know how the potions worked—“but they enhance the mutations, give me an extra push.”

Holmes began walking backwards so as to see Geralt more clearly, and Geralt had never seen a man besides Dandelion be so excited. “The one that allows you to see in the dark… what are the others?”

Geralt hesitated, but Watson, too, had caught up with them and was listening with bated breath. Geralt figured he might have some passing interest as a healer. “Regenerative potions, anti-poison, stamina recovery…” Some that were essentially berserker concoctions, he thought, in the safety of his own mind. He could take any number of them and fight nearly anything to come out the winner.

  
“I don’t suppose they might work on garden-variety humans,” Holmes said wistfully, to a sharp look from Watson.

“They would kill you almost immediately.” Even Golden Oriole could kill if not carefully administered in the smallest possible dose to a human. “If I take too many, I could go into—well, I guess you’d call it toxic shock.”

Geralt could _see_ the wheels turning in Holmes’ mind, though he looked unaccountably disappointed. “What on earth are they made of to be so deadly?” Geralt mentally tacked on the _for humans_ at the end.

“Monster guts,” Geralt said evenly.

Holmes faltered, then fell back and held a brief, whispered conversation with Watson that could be summed up as _he can drink poison? Watson, is that even possible?_ followed by _he’s a damn Witcher, Holmes, does it matter?_

Geralt smirked and felt a smooth satisfaction creep over him. Sometimes, he thought, it was nice to be on the end of someone’s awe without the looming threat of being thrown out of town. 

He paused at a crossroads and realized he had no idea where they were headed, or indeed any idea where they were _currently_. He thought he recognized a building down to his right, like it might be near a notice board, but he could now consider himself thoroughly lost in the underbelly of the city. Well, shit. “I have no idea where we are,” he admitted to Holmes and Watson, who had both just come up beside him.

Holmes waved him away with a dignified air. “Worry not, I do.”

Watson sighed deeply. “He’s memorized the whole layout of the city. You couldn’t be in better hands.”

Geralt decided not to argue and stepped aside to allow Holmes to continue leading. They passed through some sections Geralt _did_ recognize, but they had to have walked far enough to be almost on the entire opposite side of the city. “Sorry, but you never said where we’re going,” he said to Holmes when they’d stopped before a shady alley with a rickety scaffolding to one side and a step-up door on the other side.

Holmes spread an arm wide, indicating said alley. “The last victim’s home. He lived alone, and it has been shut up by the authorities until his relatives can be contacted. I believe they currently live in Oxenfurt.” 

So it would be awhile before anything would be disturbed, Geralt surmised. He honed in on the walls and pavement, searching for anything out of the ordinary. “How long ago was this one killed?” he asked, absently.

“One week to the day,” Watson said; Geralt could feel prying eyes on his back. “Everything alright there?”

“Mm.” He crouched by the stairs as Holmes bounded up them and narrowed his eyes. After a week, not much would be left, but he thought he could smell a hint of that perfume, seeped into the stones. And there—the faintest of bootprints that smelled feebly of herbs he couldn’t quite identify. If this victim was also poisoned, then perhaps there would be better traces inside. The bootprint itself was large, probably belonging to a man, and did not match those that Geralt had seen guards wearing.

Holmes came up behind him, practically breathing on his neck, and said, “What do you see?”

It was very hard to sneak up on a witcher, but Geralt wished Holmes wouldn’t try so hard to accomplish it. “Bootprint, might’ve stepped in whatever poison was used here. Inside should be a lot more useful.”

Holmes, with all the energy of a child, bounded up the steps and began fiddling with the lock. Geralt watched him for a moment, then cast a glance around them. The scaffolding looked promising—there was a small ledge on the upper floor window, not quite a balcony, but wide enough that he could jump over and climb in through the window.

The front door creaked open and Holmes swept a hand towards it dramatically. “I have picked the locks. Come, let us proceed.”

“How very civilized of you,” Geralt said, dryly. “I would’ve climbed up the scaffolding and jumped down from the roof.”

Holmes sniffed. “Some of us are more than capable of picking a lock.”

“Don’t worry,” Watson said as an aside to Geralt, “if I hadn’t a bad leg, and prohibited him from entering buildings without me, he would have done the same.”

They all trooped in together, and Geralt immediately honed in on the front room. The murder had occurred here; no mess but the body had been cleared. There were still traces of blood and vomit and poison on the floor. Again, a chair was overturned close to where the body had lain along with part of a bootprint matching the one from out front that vanished out the door. He didn’t need to see the body to know the same thing had happened here.

But overlaid on top of the stench of death Geralt could smell something minutely familiar. Clean soap, mineral waters, possibly from a spring… He closed his eyes and concentrated. Yes, there it was. The scent of a bathhouse, one that he knew.

Dijkstra. He _knew_ something felt shady here. Dijkstra must have asked the captain of the guard to contact Geralt in the event of another murder, and so here he was, investigating. Goddamn spies interfering in everything he did. The man had plans within plans within plans.

“I know who really wanted me here,” he said to Holmes and Watson. “Who’s really hiring me to look at this.”

They exchanged a glance, and Watson raised an eyebrow. “I thought you said it was a favor to a friend.”

“I thought so, too.” He let out a deep breath. “What do you know of the Big Four?”

Holmes’ eyes widened as he clearly tried to put the pieces together. “Likely more than anyone else in the city save the Big Four themselves. Cleaver, Whoreson Junior, King of Beggers, and Reuven. They all closely guard their identities, though I have of course deduced—”

“Good enough,” Geralt interrupted. “It’s Sigi Reuven. He wanted me to personally look at this, and the bastard couldn’t just ask me like a normal person.”

Geralt could see the cogs turning in his head. “So,” Holmes said slowly, “you know Reuven, and you somehow deduced from this room that he is behind your involvement here. You cannot have seen any traces of him, as I have noticed no changes from when we were last here save for the efforts to remove the body. Neither have you touched or tasted anything. Therefore… you smelled something, did you not?” Holmes’ lips curled into a wide grin. “How utterly fascinating. How do you filter through so much stimuli?”

Watson crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the wall. “I must say I am beginning to feel redundant with such genius in the room.”

Geralt grunted and moved around to crouch beside the place where the body had lain. All fluids had obviously dried, but he swiped his finger on the floor anyway to get a whiff and a taste. Verbena, arenaria, dwarven spirits. The base for the katakan decoction, if he was not mistaken, with beggartick blossoms again. Toxic to the ordinary human, hard to get ahold of, and incomplete without the katakan portions. At least he could be sure the culprit was not a witcher. But why on earth would a killer use two different types of poison? Katakan decoction, and then the latest murder, a werewolf decoction. He could think of no monster that would do so.

He stood slowly. “I think,” he said, after a moment, “that this is not a case for a witcher.” He would certainly have words with Dijkstra—he didn’t want to be dragged into more human nonsense, the first time was just… personal, plus it ended up being a vampire anyway.

Holmes threw up his hands. “Why on earth not? You have already given us more information than I was able to gather in the hours I have spent on this case, and you have proved invaluable so far.”

Watson, too, gave Geralt a peculiar look. “Yes, why’s that? You seemed pretty fine with helping us earlier.”

Geralt scowled and crossed his arms over his chest. “You were managing just fine without me, you can continue to do so.” With that, he retreated outside—not running away, he told himself—and sniffed his way back to the better parts of town before Holmes and Watson could catch up.

Back at the Chameleon, Geralt flopped onto a bench across from Zoltan. “Whole thing was a dud. Had someone else working on it, they were doing just fine without me. No monsters, just humans.”

Zoltan frowned. “Are ye sure? My friend was pretty sure—”

“You can just say Dijkstra,” Geralt said with a huff. “I know he’s the one behind you getting me to go, so there’s no point pretending.”

Zoltan gave him a dirty look but didn’t argue, which only confirmed Geralt’s suspicious. “Why would he want me to get involved in the guards’ business?” he wondered, just to see if he would get a straight answer.

“Ye know I can’t say that, lad,” Zoltan said.

“Can’t, or won’t,” Geralt muttered under his breath, and went to get something to drink.


	3. Chapter 3

Geralt had a lovely two hours drinking his way to being drunk. An impressive undertaking, for as a general rule of thumb most taverns did not serve the level of alcohol needed for him to start feeling anything. He could’ve used his stash of potion spirits, but he wasn’t _quite_ that desperate yet. He just needed to be a little less mad at Dijkstra. What interest could the asshole _possibly_ have in some random murders committed by a human, and why would he rope Geralt into it?

Even so, he was just this side of well and truly pissed when the door to the Chameleon opened. Normally, this would not have been an issue; the door had been opening and closing all afternoon and evening. This time, the newcomers made a beeline straight for him. “Fuck,” Geralt muttered when he saw who it was.

Holmes slid smoothly onto the bench across from Geralt and steepled his fingers in front of him. “I see you have been quite productive since we parted ways.”

“I suppose you somehow ‘deduced’ my location,” Geralt said flatly.

“That was me, actually,” Watson said, coming up behind Holmes with the faint air of a job well done. “I remembered the name of the bard who sang all those songs about you, and I heard he was in Novigrad. It was simple enough to track him here.”

Holmes flashed Watson a look of pride. “We had planned to inquire into your whereabouts, but it seems our work has been done for us.”

“Fuck,” Geralt sighed. He contemplated laying his head on the table, and after a moment did just that.

“Come on,” Watson sighed. He came around and laid a hand on Geralt’s shoulder. “You are quite useless like this, and you will have a hangover in the morning.”

“Witchers don’ get hangovers,” Geralt mumbled into the crook of his elbow.

“Lucky bastard,” Watson said with no trace of sympathy in his voice.

After a moment spent as deadweight in Watson’s grip, Geralt gave up and let himself be manhandled towards the stairs. Out of the corner of his eye he watched Holmes exchange a few brief words with the bartender, and then they were going up. Holmes was a great deal stronger than his figure suggested and so carried the majority of Geralt’s weight.

Distantly, he registered being dumped unceremoniously on his bed, face down, with his armor digging uncomfortably into his side. Something did not seem quite right.

“Holmes, don’t do that. I’m not touching those swords, and you better not either,” Watson said. His voice was growing fainter. “If you thought I was angry when you started in on my weapons, I’m sure a witcher will hardly be any better.”

#

Geralt woke all at once with a start, rolling off the bed with sword in hand before his mind caught up with his body. When he came back to himself, he had Watson slammed against the wall, one hand fisted in his coat and the other holding a sword to his throat. Watson’s hands were raised shoulder-high, his eyes wide, though his heartbeat and breath were relatively steady. “Fuck,” Geralt hissed. He released Watson and let his sword drop. “Fuck,” he said again, scrubbing a hand over his face.

“Quite,” Watson said, straightening his clothing. Geralt could feel his steady gaze, and he turned so he wouldn’t have to look at it. After a moment, Watson continued, “Are you feeling in better spirits than last night?”

“Hmm.” Geralt sheathed his sword with a groan, stretching out a little. A few weeks sleeping out of armor in a comfy bed had his body accustomed to it, and to suddenly be in armor again to rest made him realize how uncomfortable it was. He adjusted his swords properly—hadn’t slept with those in a long time—as vague memories of the night before returned to him. How kind of them to carry him to bed like a child. “Shouldn’t have carried on like that, my apologies. For almost killing you, too.”

Watson made a soft sound. “I should hardly think—”

Geralt whirled around and growled low in his throat. “I would have killed you, do not deny it.” He inhaled deeply and attempted to stamp down the sudden anger. “You’re lucky this time. If you tried to touch me in my sleep, don’t do it again, or next time you might leave in pieces.”

Watson’s heartbeat remained slow, even. Geralt could smell no fear; if Watson felt afraid, he hid it perfectly. “It should be my apologies, not yours. I did not consider—well.” He smiled wanly. “I served in the army. I know how… difficult it can be.”

“Not an issue for witchers,” Geralt said flatly. It was true: witchers did not suffer from the fear and night terrors that other soldiers had. He didn’t think he’d ever had a nightmare in his life. “Fight or flight is fight only.”

“I’m sure Holmes would be fascinated.” Watson, too, appeared fascinated.

“Witchers don’t have feelings, after all.” Geralt turned and rolled his shoulders back, cracking his neck from side to side. “Why are you here?”

“Just wanted to check in on you, make sure you were feeling okay.” Watson let out a deep breath. “You drank a lot last night.”

Geralt grunted and shoved his way past Watson and out the door. Just on the landing, Dandelion was climbing the stairs, talking loudly to someone behind him. Geralt squinted—Holmes, perhaps? Yes, it was Holmes. “—you didn’t have to take him up here! Trust me, I do just fine taking care of him!” Dandelion was saying.

Holmes waved both hands. “Did you even notice that he was carried to bed last night by two strangers? We might have done anything!”

“And he does just fine taking care of himself, too!”

They both stopped upon seeing Geralt in the doorway, and Geralt raised an imperious eyebrow. “I’m right here,” he said mildly, “and in perfect condition, thank you.”

“Damn witchers,” Dandelion muttered, subsiding. “Do you ever get a hangover?”

Geralt flashed him a bright, toothy smile. “Not really.” Not without witcher-grade home distilled vodka, anyway.

Holmes stared at Geralt with a gleam in his eyes. “Is that so? Well—”

“Not the time, Holmes,” Watson said as he brushed his way past Geralt. “In fact, I think it’s high time we were going, don’t you?” He swept to the staircase and took Holmes by the arm, and as they went down the stairs Holmes argued the whole way.

The moment they were out of earshot, Dandelion turned an astonished gaze on Geralt. “Who _were_ they? How do you know them?”

“They are irritating,” Geralt said, thinking of his abrupt awakening. Really, Watson should have known better. Especially if he’d been in the army. At least they didn’t touch his swords. At Dandelion’s look, Geralt sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. “Zoltan sent me off on a… contract, said a friend of a friend needed help. Found those two at the most recent death. Also found out Dijkstra was a part of it, somehow, and it was probably a human. Not my territory.”

“You went after Priscilla’s attacker even when we all thought he was a human,” Dandelion pointed out, and rightly so.

“That was _different_. It was _Priscilla_. She helped me, I helped her. Simple.” It really had been that simple, except that he also wanted to help Dandelion.

Dandelion eyed him dubiously, but he seemed to accept this and led the way downstairs to cough up some breakfast for the both of them. It was much too early for anyone to really be around, so they along with Zoltan huddled around a table with some relatively appetizing gruel to discuss things.

“You,” Geralt said, jabbing a finger in Zoltan’s direction, “knew Dijkstra was behind getting me on this, and you didn’t say a damn thing. You know how I feel about him.”

To his credit, Zoltan did wince and look away. “Sorry, lad but… you were all moping an’ sad, and I got a call ‘specially for you. Thought you might appreciate the distraction.”

“You thought wrong,” Geralt snapped. “It’s not for me, anyway. Might as well let them—” he thrust a hand out towards the door—“figure out their own problems. They were doing just fine without me.”

“Holmes was singing your praises the _whole way up_ this morning,” Dandelion said, looking as if he, too, wanted to sing Geralt’s praises. “You _like_ showing off, don’t deny it. I’ve known you for ages and you are a sarcastic bastard who likes shocking anyone and everyone with all your… witchery-ness.” He gestured to Geralt’s entire being.

Geralt subsided with a grumble. It had been nice to be the subject of someone’s awe rather than on the receiving end of anti-witcher vitriole. Holmes seemed like the sort of person to ask increasingly invasive questions while also flattering to the extreme. Watson had also expressed at least a passing interest.

“Aha! You do!” Dandelion grinned and leaned back in his chair. “Show-off.”

Geralt had nothing to say to this, so he remained silent.

Even Zoltan was smirking a little. “We know ye, lad, ye might as well give it up.” Zoltan tapped his fingers on the tabletop. “Ye have nothing better to do. Even _if_ it was Dijkstra what wanted ye in on this, maybe there’s something more under the surface.”

Fuck. How could they possibly know him so well? Goddammit. Geralt laid his head down on his forearms and heaved a great sigh. “Fine,” he muttered. “I’ll go back and see what I can do.”

No one said he had to be quick about it.

He wiped down his armor, then ordered a bath and took a nice, long soak while everything dried. When the water grew cold, he warmed it up with a quick _igni_. This process took all morning. Then, he took the time to clean and oil his swords as well as the dagger he kept easily accessible.

Finally, around noon, he nabbed a roll from the kitchens and slunk out to follow Holmes’ trail. A quick investigation of the staircase had revealed a distinct bootprint and faint scent that he easily tracked around the city. At first, the trail led him all around to the strangest of places. He ended up several times in the King of Beggars’ territory, where Holmes had made several longer stops on random street corners and in alleys. Watson had waited still but impatient at every stop, lingering several feet behind Holmes; Geralt wondered what they had been doing.

The trail led at last to a townhouse in the more well-off part of town where Geralt felt distinctly out of place. Once he knew where to look, he took up an inconspicious vantage point to watch.

Sure enough—after a short time, Holmes emerged from the front door, followed by Watson, and they both swept off. Geralt waited until they were out of sight before taking the opportunity to let himself in by an upper story window.

He carefully wiped his boots off before venturing onto the carpeted floor of a neat and well-kept bedroom. The bed was made with careful, military precision, and not a single thing was out of place. Watson’s room, he figured; if he were to venture a guess, Holmes’ room would be the exact opposite.

Holmes’ room, however, was not what he had come for. He made his way downstairs on silent feet.

Most of the second floor living area looked as if a hurricane had hit it. “Shit,” he muttered as he carefully stepped around piles of papers and stuffed binders. What on earth could they possibly need all of this for? Part of him wanted to snoop through everything—but the other part knew that if he messed something up, he would never be able to put it all back together. He settled for draping dramatically over one of the plush armchairs situated before the window to wait. It would be delightful if he would surprise the both of them.

He slipped into a meditative state after awhile, keeping one ear out for any disturbances and letting the rest sink to meditation. His heartbeat slowed, breath nearly stopping altogether, and everything disappeared into darkness until the sound of a door opening roused him.

He straightened up, leaning forward and tilting his head at just the right angle for his eyes to glow from the embers in the fireplace.

Holmes and Watson were laughing as they stomped up the stairs. “I do believe you owe me a drink, Holmes,” said Watson with a grin in his voice. “I _told_ you that nothing would come of your fisstech angle, did I not?”

“You are becoming a class unto your own,” Holmes sniffed, but he didn’t protest. He bounded around the bannister and made immediately for a large enclosed cabinet along one wall.

Watson removed his coat and hung it on a coat rack by the stairs. “I didn’t mean right this very second, you know. You might have waited until—shit!” Watson had noticed Geralt and backed straight into the wall with a muffled thump.

Holmes whipped around to see, nearly spilling the glass in his hand, and his eyes widened when he saw Geralt. “Get out,” he snarled, and he reached for a sword that Geralt had earlier noticed mounted on the wall.

Geralt resisted the urge to throw up a _quen_ and instead lazily reclined back in the chair. “Let me get this straight. You’re perfectly fine breaking into other people’s houses, but when the tables turn on you, you protest?” Geralt smiled slowly, revealing sharp teeth with a glimmer in his eyes that the fire only further accented.

Holmes stopped abruptly halfway across the room.

Watson gave a breathless laugh and pushed himself off the wall. “Holmes—you cannot argue with that. Put the damn sword away.”

“But--!”

“ _Holmes_.”

Holmes slowly put the sword away, though he moved cautiously and did not take his eyes off Geralt. Geralt gave him a bit of a look and drawled, “You really think you could’ve taken on a witcher?”

If Holmes were inclined to blushing he probably would have. Instead, he threw himself onto the sofa and groused, “You needn’t say such obvious things.”

Geralt smirked and waved a hand. “Just wanted to point that out.” He so rarely abused his status as a witcher, but when he did, the results were glorious and made him want to do it more.

Watson moved slower into the sitting room, cautious, and settled into a chair opposite Geralt. “Would you mind terribly explaining what you’re doing here?”

“Isn’t it obvious, Watson? He tracked us here. He means to assist us in our case.” Holmes’ eyes were now gleaming and his body was tensed with energy. “He tracked us here. How… astonishing. We left no trace that I can think of.”

“There is always a trace, and I’m one of the best. You were surprisingly easy to find.” Geralt shrugged; they had been.

Holmes looked as if he wanted to continue his line of questioning, but was interrupted. “ _Anyway_ ,” Watson said loudly, “would you like to hear what Holmes and I discovered in the hours we were separated?”

After a brief moment’s hesitation, Geralt decided he rather did want to know, as a matter of professional curiosity. He spread a hand wide. “Be my guest.”

Holmes straightened. He clearly had two modes of operation: gather information, and dispense information. “Very well.” He started into a basic summary that began with the moment they had parted ways the day before.

Geralt ignored his words in favor of sniffing out where they’d been. A whiff of salt, fish, and buckthorn—they’d been to the docks. He vaguely remembered Holmes going on about fisstech at some point. Perhaps they had gone to follow that lead despite Geralt’s warning that it would lead to nothing. But Holmes had just reached that point in his rambling, so Geralt felt no need to point it out.

“—of course, I received information from Bedlam… secondhand, obviously, the bastard never did like meeting in person… at any rate, but he passed on that Sigi Reuven had been interested. This I already knew as you told us yesterday.”

“God fucking dammit,” Geralt muttered. He scowled and let his head fall back against the chair.

Watson was watching Geralt closely. “You know him fairly well already,” he said after a moment in Holmes’ sudden silence.

“I want nothing to do with whatever Sig—Reuven has planned,” Geralt growled.

Holmes idly waved a hand. “You might as well dispose of the idea that Reuven will not feature heavily in this conversation. I have known for some time that he was once a Redanian spy—don’t look so surprised, the both of you. It is quite obvious for those who know how to look.” He scrutinized Geralt closely. “Ah, but you already knew that. You are merely surprised that I found out as well.”

Well, Geralt thought, it was Dijkstra’s own fault if he couldn’t safeguard his identity well enough. He certainly felt no loyalty to keep everything a secret. “Not my place to say.”

“Thank you for the confirmation,” Holmes said. He looked smug. “Apparently he has taken a personal interest in this case. You discovered this yesterday, and directly thereafter you wanted nothing to do with this. I can only conclude that you have a past sordid history which you feel disinclined to share.”

“Wouldn’t call it sordid, but I definitely don’t want to share.” Geralt crossed his arms over his chest. Let Holmes draw what he would from that.

“Very well.” Holmes subsided into quiet thought after that, leaving Geralt and Watson in an awkward silence. Geralt stretched out a bit further; might as well be comfortable while waiting for more information.

Watson stood after a time and peered at Geralt. “May I get you anything? A drink?”

Geralt considered, and then—“No. I prefer a clear mind right now.”

“Well, I don’t mind.” Watson headed straight for the cabinet and opened a snifter. The scent of fine, expensive whiskey wafted over, and Geralt inexplicably found his mouth watering. Maybe he should have taken Watson up on the offer.

Instead, he took to observing the room in greater detail. There were papers stacked everywhere, true, but there were also wall-to-wall shelves stuffed with books. Double stacked, triple stacked in some places, and only the highest shelves a little dusty. They all looked well-thumbed. Then there was the liquor cabinet, cluttered with glasses and decanters and expensive bottles that most people only dreamed of tasting. If Holmes’ only occupation was hunting down human killers, it certainly paid well.

The chair he sat in was sturdy, covered in fine fabric, and free of stains. The same could be said of the other furniture in the room—though the couch where Holmes sat had seen better days. On the fireplace mantle sat a skull and a variety of candles. Out of habit, his fingers itched to light them all. All in all, the place seemed… cozy, and warm, like its occupants cared for it and it, in turn, cared for them. Geralt felt a twinge of longing for Kaer Morhen and the chilled, crumbling castle walls. Despite the shabbiness it was still home, in a way.

Up on the second floor, the sounds of the streets below were muted even to his ears. Not that there was much traffic in this neighborhood. The windows were surprisingly clear of drafts and little of the outside smells came in. This left only indoor scents to catch his interest.

Dirtied clothing. A trip to the wharf. Traipsing through the poorer streets of Novigrad. Even a hint of the Chameleon. From downstairs, a mouth-watering meal being prepared. And underneath it all—so faint he wasn’t surprised he’d missed it before—was the distinct tang of fisstech.

Interesting.

Watson, as a doctor, would never entertain such a thing. Holmes, on the other hand… Geralt could see him taking the drug. That had to have been why Holmes thought of the fisstech, how he knew where to find the dealers. But he couldn’t have been addicted—Geralt had seen what happened to those who regularly imbibed in fisstech.

He was just wondering whether to confront Holmes when the man himself stood and turned to face him. “I believe I know where to begin,” Holmes said.


End file.
